


Merry-Go-Round

by elderwitty, squidgie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post Episode: s05e20 Enemy at the Gate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderwitty/pseuds/elderwitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: You can't go home again.  But sometimes, it comes back to you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Romancing McShep](http://romancingmcshep.livejournal.com) celebration for 2017.

"Jesus fuck," John thought.  "Another six-hour meeting.  Does the IOA get paid by the word?"  He kicked a stray pebble back into someone's front yard rock garden, enjoying the fading sunshine as he turned in the general direction of the bay.  He let the vibrant San Francisco neighborhood he was passing through (along with the surety that no bureaucrat could find him) restore his flagging energy.

John's temples throbbed and his shoulders drooped with the weight of the week's work, but it wasn't the clean tiredness bought with _honest_ labor.  You could fall into bed and sleep deeply after a day of fighting the Wraith, helping the Athosians clear a new _tuttle_ field, or even just overseeing the _Welcome to Atlantis - Don't Touch ANYTHING_ program for their latest military intake.  Not so, the mind-numbing negotiations with the IOA about how and when Atlantis would finally break free from Earth and return to Pegasus.

Return home.

The discussions had been going on for far too long, taking their toll on the whole expedition.  Ronon trained Marines until they broke, but remained restless as a caged _gondrif_.  Teyla still read, trained, and meditated as usual, but occasionally lashed out - very much NOT as usual - in frustration at the delay in getting back to Kanaan and Torren John.  John watched his best friend's relationship with Doctor Keller disintegrate, prompting her to leave the expedition for good.  While John hated seeing Rodney upset, he wasn't exactly _unhappy_ at the dissolution of their relationship.

John's brain still buzzed with the details of an IOA meeting so frustrating that _Richard Woolsey_ had stormed out.  Atlantis was stuck on Earth for at least another couple of months, which was far too long for his way of thinking. 

He'd been walking for quite awhile, paying more attention to the crispness in the air and the colorful businesses lining the streets than his exact whereabouts.  Looking around at the sunset-washed oranges and reds of the buildings, he wasn't precisely sure where he was, other than 'east of the Bay'.

John focused on a bar whose front window was brilliantly lit up by the late afternoon sun.  He dipped two fingers in his pocket to make sure he had his wallet, which contained a few hundred dollars from his long-ignored bank account.  Money meant nothing in Pegasus, so he'd been buying whatever he wanted while on Earth, including a good drink when the urge hit.

Shivering against a sudden chill to the air, he hoped the Little Shamrock bar would have something to warm him inside and out, ideally a nice scotch to sip next to a roaring fire.  He forced himself to walk to the corner and crossed Lincoln Way at the intersection (something he'd seldom had to worry about in Pegasus).  He ducked into the bar and the door snicked shut, closing against the outside world.

First impression of the bar was 'eclectic', followed closely by 'motley' and 'random'.  None of the furniture matched, and the walls were covered in photos.  Dozens of them in all sizes, ranging from scenes of the old west to a contemporary shot from last week's Giant's win.  The bar was fairly empty, but the few patrons were smiling in welcome, so he took a seat at the ancient, time-darkened bar.

John ran a finger the highly polished wood, watching the reflection of a woman old enough to be his grandmother lean on the pass-through and relay an order to some unseen line cook.  After an indistinct response, she slowly made her way towards John with the aid of a cane.

"Evening, ma'am."

"What'll it be?" she asked with the raspy voice of a long-time smoker. 

"I'd like a good Irish whiskey, neat."  He gave the bar a rap and added, "I figure this place should have a damn fine selection."

The bartender nodded.  "Any preference?"

"What's your favorite?"

That coaxed a smile out of her.  She winked at John before using a nearby step stool to take down a dusty bottle that glimmered in the dimly lit room.  John could barely make out the faded words "Green Spot" on the label underneath a splat of green.  "'s the whiskey that my dad taught me to appreciate.  Savor."  She grabbed a glass and poured a measure, sliding it across the bar.  When it was barely halfway, she suddenly froze. 

John, who'd been focused on the liquor, looked up to see her looking at him quizzically.

"Do I know you?"

John shook his head.  "I don't think so.  I'd remember this place."  He extended his hand, "John Sheppard."

"Mary Claire O'Sullivan.  Are you sure?  You look awfully familiar."  She finished passing him the tumbler and watched him as he took a sip.

John savored the slightly sweet liquid as it warmed his throat and then his stomach.  "Wow.  This is _delicious_."

Rather than respond, she continued to study him.  After a moment, her eyes widened and she slapped the bar.  "Holy shit!"

John half-stood, ready to defend or attack.  "There a problem?"  He raised one seen-it-all eyebrow once he realized there was no need for either.

"Sorry!  Hang on a sec."  She disappeared into an office tucked under the stairs.  After a moment, she reappeared grasping a frame in her arthritic fingers.  Motioning for him to join her at the end of the bar, she put it down in the pool of light from an amber-shaded lamp.  "There," she said, pointing to the black and white image.

John looked at the group of young men standing in front of a World War I bomber.  He was about to ask what the big deal was when he recognized one of them.  Himself.  His doppelganger was grinning to beat the band, with his arms thrown around the shoulders of the guys flanking him.  Looking closely, he realized he knew them, too.  It was Mitch and Dex.

A cold wave of nausea passed over him, followed by the sharp heat of rage.  "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Taken aback, Mary stammered, "W-what?"

John tried to look away, but his eyes continued to scan his friends.  "Mitch and Dex are dead - and we never posed for anything like this."  He finally covered the glass with one hand and pinned her with a steely glare.  "Where did you get this?"

Mary held up one finger and hobbled to the nearest wall to pluck down another picture.  She returned and laid it face down on the bar.  After removing the back, she tilted it into the light, running her finger along the faded writing as she read.  "June 30th, 1930.  Frank Dyer, Skip Smithy, Jack Collie, Ralph MacCallum.  Grand remodel of Little Shamrock." 

John tried to interject, but Mary thrust the photo into his hands while relieving him of the first one and pointing to Dex.  "That's my granddad, Frank Dyer.  He fought in World War One and this was his crew.  Skip was the tail gunner."  John numbly watches her point at Mitch, before sliding her finger over to his double.  "And this is Jack Collie, Granddad's co-pilot.  Your grandfather, right?"  But before John could answer, she pointed to Rodney's double.  "And on the end is Ralph MacCallum, the flight engineer."

John stared at the image while trying to find his breath. "I hate to disappoint you, but my granddad was in the Army.  And Gramps didn't serve - he broke his leg as a kid and couldn't pass the physical.  Whoever that guy is, we're not related."

It was Mary's turn to look at him in disbelief.  "Wow. That's crazy."  Comparing John to the co-pilot, she shook her head.  "You could be his twin!"  Before John responded, she looked up sharply.  "Wait.  You recognize Granddad?  And Skip, too?"

John nodded.  "And MacCallum.  Only I know them as Dex, Mitch, and McKay."

"Jeez.  I know they say everybody has a double, but this is ridiculous.  What are the odds of you knowing doubles of four out of four guys?"

John focused into the middle distance as his mind ran through multiple scenarios:  Alternate universe?  Time jump a la SG-1?  Is the sweet little old lady bartender a Trust operative?  Okay, so that last one is pretty unlikely - but so are the four familiar faces staring back at him.  He needs more info, and Rodney to help him find it.  He picked up the photo with the men's names on the back.  "Can I borrow this?"  Pulling out his wallet, he selected a crisp one hundred dollar bill and set it on the counter.

Mary nodded as she took the bill and put it on the register.  "Just bring it back, okay?  I don't have near enough pictures of Grandpa."

"I promise," John replied solemnly.  He polished off the rest of his scotch before heading out into the evening.

~*~*~

Naturally, Rodney was nowhere to be found when John got back to Atlantis.  He checked his quarters and a couple labs before he decided to try the Mess.  Teyla looked up from her dish of ice cream and motioned him over, dabbing her lips with a napkin as he sat down.  "I have not seen you at all today."  She noticed John's agitation, and asked, "Are you troubled, John?"

John tried to explain, but the words stuck in his throat.  Instead, he handed her the photograph, then got up and walked around to stand behind her.

"What am I looking-" Teyla stopped in mid-sentence.  "John, when did you and Rodney make a novelty photograph?  Miko, Laura, and I found an establishment on, The Fisherman's Wharf I believe you call it?  They had a great many costumes and very realistic backgrounds."  She touched the image, speaking more to it than to him.  "You and Rodney look quite charming."

"No, Teyla.  This is _real_.  I mean from ages ago.  Somehow...  But that's not me, and that's not Rodney.  And I don't know if you remember them from the fog planet where they made us believe we'd gone back to Earth, but those two look just like Mitch and Dex, my buddies who were killed in Afghanistan."

As Teyla's attention snapped back to the young men, John retook his seat.  "I honestly don't know what to make of it."

Teyla nodded, and then said, "In my childhood, my father talked of a people called the Anderrans.  Their society was one of the few who did not fear the Wraith, because they believed that they would be reunited with their loved ones in the next life.  Their entire society was based upon that, so much so that they rarely traded with others, wanting to pass on their things to their _sinzalo_ \- their future selves.  Their belief was not unlike some of your Earth religions who believe in reincarnation."

John didn't adhere to any religion, though his lack of belief didn't stop him from saying a silent prayer when one of his men was injured, or if an away team missed a check-in.  Reincarnation, though?  That was a tough pill to swallow.

"Whatever the mechanism," Teyla continued, "it appears that these four gentlemen are very dear to each other.  Perhaps, if there is such a thing, you and your friends are meant to be together no matter the time or place."

She handed back the picture and picked up her bowl of dessert.  "Have you shown this to Rodney yet?"

John shook his head.  "I haven't been able to find him."

"Well, I, for one, would very much like to hear what he thinks about this," Teyla said, excavating a ribbon of chocolate.  "I find his thoughts on matters of belief quite stimulating."  She smiled mischievously as she ate her spoonful, making John smile back.

"I'll let you know when I find him."

~*~*~

John continued to search, but still couldn't locate Rodney.  He decided to get a shower and do some reading - for pleasure.  The IOA reports could definitely wait another day.  But after reading the same page a third time without taking it in, he gave up and started pacing his small room.  It took only a few minutes for that to become annoying, so he went to find Ronon and see if he was up for some sparring.

He'd only taken two steps outside his door when he spotted Rodney coming his way.  " _There_ you are," John chided.  "I've been looking all over for you."

"Sorry, Sheppard, I was-" When Rodney looked up from his datapad, his expression changed to one of concern.  "John?  Is everything okay?"

John grabbed Rodney by the elbow and dragged him into his quarters, wishing the situation was more like John's fantasies than this current craziness.  "I need you to look at something."  Letting go of Rodney's arm, he grabbed the picture off the bedside table and handed it over.

"This is...odd," Rodney said as he walked to the window for some better light.  "When did- Wait," and he turned the picture over.  "Little Shamrock?  1930?"

"Yeah," John said.  "Jack Collie and Ralph McCallum."

"Good god!  I thought Meredith was bad."

"And these two?  Are the spitting image of my friends Dex and Mitch, who were killed in Afghanistan.  But these guys are named Frank Dyer and Skip Smithy."

"Well, that's just..." Rodney trailed off.  "I wouldn't even _begin_ to know how to calculate the odds of something like this."

"I know, right?"

They stared at the photograph in silence, until John finally broke the quiet as he rubbed the back of his neck.  "Listen.  Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure.  Anything."

"Is there a way to... I don't know - do a search to see if this has happened before?"  When Rodney just looked befuddled, he added, "The four of us.  Me, you, Mitch, and Dex?"

Rodney thought for a moment before shaking his head.  "Search where?"

"I dunno.  Newspapers?  Books?  Any kind of image search?"

"Look, John.  The chances of a search even finding a picture with four men-"

"Then just do two," John interrupted. While that was supposed to sound less crazy, it really didn't.  "Search for us.  Me and you," he said, resting one hand on Rodney's shoulder.

Rodney seemed to gaze at the ceiling as he considered.  "Okay," he said slowly.  "It's a good thing we've got high-speed Internet out here.  I'll set up the parameters and have it search overnight."

"Thanks, Rodney.  You're a pal."

Rodney smiled, and John felt a familiar hitch in his chest.  It cropped up whenever Rodney seemed to show more than their usual level of friendship.

"We can check the results at breakfast.  Oh-eight-hundred?" Rodney asked as he palmed the door controls.

"Thanks, Rodney."

~*~*~

John pushed away the cobwebs of a restless night as he got up and made the bed.  He stripped, tossing his boxers in a newly acquired (and much mocked by Rodney) hamper, and padded into the shower.  He opted for piping hot water, to wash away the dust of yesterday's walk, along with some of his frustration.

After toweling off, John threw the towel over the back of a chair and pulled on boxers, and then a relatively clean pair of BDUs.  As he reached for a t-shirt, his door flew open and a harried Rodney stomped into the room glaring at his laptop.

"Hey, buddy."  John smiled despite himself.  McKay had a crease from his pillowcase across one cheek, and John was sorely tempted to trail his fingers along its length.  Tucking one hand in his pockets to control the urge, he fumbled for his t-shirt with the other.  "What'd you find?"

Rodney still hadn't spoken, but suddenly seemed to switch his attention from his laptop to John's bare chest.  John no sooner felt his regular hopeful pang than the look on Rodney's face slipped away.  Rodney shook himself, and shoved the laptop screen in John's face.  "Look."

John gaped at the sepia-colored historical duplicates of him and Rodney.  John's gear included a six-pointed star engraved _SHERRIFF_ pinned to a leather vest.  But the hair was identical to John's, as was the five o'clock shadow.  Rodney wore a bowler hat that concealed the top third of his face, while a ridiculously large mustache and sideburns did the same for most of the bottom half.  His thumbs were hitched behind his suspenders and he looked gloriously smug as only he could.

"'s a good look for you, Rodney," John teased, elbowing Rodney in the arm before clearing his throat and reading the caption.  "Sherriff Jacob Kett and Doctor Leslie McCullister stand over the corpse of one of our nation's most wanted, fugitive Ronald Calistoga.  Calistoga was captured on April 12th by Kett, and was pronounced dead by McCullister the next morning.  This photograph acts as proof of his demise, and Calistoga was buried in a pauper's grave in Deadwood."  John turned to Rodney.  "This is cool...  Maybe there _is_ something to this reincarnation stuff."

"Yes, maybe.  But _doctor_?" Rodney complained.  "Even though apparently McCullister was one of the first people to use forensic science.  It's just too damn bad that this all happened before Alfred Nobel died or I would have won a Nobel for sure."

"Just don't tell Carson about this," John said.  "Otherwise, he'll never let you live it down that _you've_ practiced voodoo, too."

John still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.  He glanced at the picture again, then shook his head and checked again.  "Is that-"

"Yup.  That's _Kavanaugh_.  I just hope I got to slap him around a little.  I mean, seriously.  Is it too much to ask to let me smack one of the biggest pains in my ass of all time?"

John peeked at Rodney, then quickly looked away to hide his fond expression.

"Oh yeah," Rodney said, interrupting John's thoughts.  "There's this one, too."

Rodney opened another tab, and again, John saw himself and Rodney, thought this one was a painting.  John had to smile, because it was _clearly_ Rodney next to the ancient telescope, while he was looking down at a couple of sheep.  "So what's this?"

" _Of Heaven And Earth_ , by Sir Thomas Gainsborough," Rodney replied.  "The exact date is unknown, but it was probably in the early 1700s."

"So _you_ get to study the heavens, and I-"

"Yes, John.  _You_ get to mind the sheep." Rodney rolls back on his heels as a smirk played across his face.  "Apparently I get to spend my lifetimes in pursuit of the sciences, while you...  Well."  Rodney pointed to the flock of sheep in the background of the painting.

"Looks to me like _I_ managed to put food on the table while _you_ stayed out all night," John countered.  There was no heat to his voice, but only because he fought to keep to their usual bantering tone.  The implications were overwhelming; he and Rodney had spent at least part of their last four lifetimes together.  It had to mean _something_.

Rather than dwell on that, John looked at Rodney.  "So, what now?  Do we tell someone?  Who?"

"No, no, no," Rodney immediately balked.  "I mean, I need to do more research, but I really, _really_ don't want to tell anyone about this."  Rodney fidgeted.  "At least not yet."

John frowned.  "You're not embarrassed about this - about us.  Are you, Rodney?"

Rodney scoffed and took the laptop, setting it on the table.  "Absolutely _not_.  I want to do more research while we're still on Earth, but no matter what, I am **not** embarrassed by you in any way."

There was so much caring in Rodney's blue eyes that it made John's heart skip again. 

"Well, _whatever_ this is - the best part is that we always end up together."

Rodney smile turned into a smirk.  "But you're not starting to believe in this reincarnation crap, right?  Are you, John?  I mean, it could be just random chance."

Even as he said the words, his expression told another story.  John studied Rodney's face as he slowly reached out.  It seemed like a lifetime before his hand found Rodney's.  Once it did, John let their fingers tangle, and Rodney used their joined hands to pull John closer.

"John?" Rodney whispered.

John took a deep, steadying breath, knowing it was time to take a chance.  He raised his free hand to cup Rodney's cheek.  "I know one thing for sure.  I'm not waiting another lifetime to do this."

He leaned in to ghost his lips against Rodney's, taking the way his breath hitched like an award.  Rodney opened his mouth, inviting him in, and they both groaned.  By now both his hands were down Rodney's pants, while Rodney's were gripping his hair almost painfully.  Their tongues danced, and then they fell breathlessly onto John's bed. 

Together at last.

Again.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'Little Shamrock' is indeed a real bar in San Francisco; the second ondest one in the city. However, we've changed the ownership of it to meet our needs. It still looks like a really unique and fun place to go for a whiskey!


End file.
